Faded
by luneytuney
Summary: Stereotypical post-Reichenbach reunion.. Just as John begins to cope after a year of being alone, a familiar face returns. No slash, but it could be read into, I suppose.  First fanfic in awhile, please be gentle with it!


It was just an ordinary day- well, as ordinary as it could be. Only the shabby picture on the wall reminded him of what had happened (what kind of condolence gift is a fucking waterfall calendar?), but he generally avoided looking at that.

John avoided its gaze now as he unloaded the shopping in the kitchen, methodically placing every item exactly in its place and ignoring memories of other, more grotesque things that had once occupied the cabinet space. Funny, really, how things like that got to him sometimes.

The cat jumped up on the counter as he pulled out the milk for tea. It had been his therapist's idea to get a pet- something to feel responsible for, she said. Really it was just to keep him busy, but mostly he enjoyed the company. Some of the milk splashed into the saucer for it.

Every now and then he would give in, stop by the florist and catch a cab to the graveyard. But that had been happening less often in the past month or so- maybe he was finally "acclimating to his grief" or something. But he could never quite shake the feeling that some things wouldn't ever be the same. It was like someone had taken his life and painted a big swath of whitewash over it, so that everything was the tiniest bit muted, the tiniest bit dulled. The trees were never quite as green, the sky never as blue... Even the big doubledeckers had faded, no longer the vibrant red that had penetrated the worst London fog.

Then there were the dreams; it seemed as if every bit of color that had leaked from his waking hours had bled and fed into his nightmares, sharpening and intensifying every little horrifying detail. Blazing flashes of white explosions mixed with the reds of dead and dying officers and friends and the crystalline image of swirling, falling, spread-eagled black overpowered everything. Mrs. Hudson had learned not to mention the screams.

By morning he was usually back in the dim, normal routine, though- roll out of bed and grab his cane, clean up and go to the clinic, come home and, after a bit of telly, go upstairs to bed and get ready to do it all over again. It was good, predictable, like back in the army; he knew exactly what every day would hold. It was safe.

Safe, but not permanent.

As his tea was cooling he finished up the unpacking and switched on his laptop, meaning to send an email to Sarah- one of his patients that day had needed some emergency care that wasn't quite under regulation. He didn't think she'd mind, though.

A hesitant knock at the door made both him and the cat jump. It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson awake this late, and Greg normally just wandered in when he needed to talk. No one else- at least, no one else possible- had a key to 221b. Must be a burglar, but what kind of burglar knocked?

He grabbed his handgun from the desk drawer anyways- couldn't be too careful. "Who is it?"

The voice that replied shattered the world around him. "Sherlock Holmes."

It wasn't possible, it couldn't be- no, it wasn't him. And yet it seemed like there was already a bit more color in the room. "Open the door then."

And in he came, tall and pale and dark, coat streaming behind him. The gun clattered to the floor as John sprung away. "That's not- you can't be, you're not- him. You're not him."

The taller man backed off, looking a bit more cautious. "John, it's me. I realize that this may be a lot to fathom but It. Is. Me."

The soldier stopped and forced himself to look, to really look. There was that dark curly hair, looking less groomed than usual; the same piercing eyes, underscored with harsh shadows. The clothes were the same, down to the fitted dress shirt and loose scarf wrapped around his neck. Even the shoes were the same- once neatly polished, now a bit dusty, with the laces tightly knotted in case of running.

He took a cautious step forward. "You- you died. You made me watch, I saw you die. I checked your pulse, even, and there wasn't one, not a trace.. You can't be here, you can't be, you just.."

"I promise you.. Here." Sherlock stepped forward slowly and held out his hand. "It's really me. I'm really here."

"But- I saw-" John took another step, closing the distance, and reached forward with a shaky hand to touch him. He was solid- not a hallucination, not another dream. Sherlock was really, inexplicably, alive.

With a sudden jerk, John pulled his hand back and landed a punch squarely on the consulting detective's jaw. "You bastard."

"But-" Sherlock spun in disbelief, watching as his only friend limped up the stairs without another word.

Once safely in his room, John allowed his emotions to show for the first time since he visited the grave- the grave which, apparently, had had no purpose other than to keep up the blasted farce that he'd been fooled by for the past fucking year. It was like he was a little kid again, following Harry around and believing everything his big sis told him no matter how ridiculous it was. Of course there were trolls under his bed, Harry said so. Of course the moon was mozzerella, Harry told him so. Of course Sherlock was dead, because Molly and Mycroft and Lestrade and the goddamn corpse of his best fucking friend told him so. What else was he supposed to think?

Finally he went back downstairs, fully intended on getting some answers. The sight of Sherlock curled up on the couch still shook him, though, especially since the detective was fully occupied with petting John's cat- the same cat who, until now, apparently, was unable to tolerate anyone but himself and occasionally Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock looked up at his lopsided footsteps. "What do you call her?"

"I- what- what?" This was not exactly the way he'd planned on the conversation running.

"The cat- I asked you what her name is."

"That's- that's completely beside the point! You show up here after being god-knows-where for the past YEAR, and the first thing you ask me is the name of my goddamned CAT? Not so much as a 'how are you doing, hope you've been coping well with me being dead'? You bastard! You miserable, low-dealing, conniving, mother-fucking son of a bitch!"

Sherlock's hand stilled. "John, I-"

John cut him off. "Shut up. Jus- just shut up and let me talk. You have no idea, not a bloody clue of what I've been through, what we've all been though. Mrs. Hudson can barely look at this place because she misses you so much. Lestrade lost his job, his wife, everything because of Moriarty, and now he can't get a sentence out without chaining a pack of fucking cigarettes. And me? I- nevermind. You probably wouldn't give a damn." He stopped, out of breath.

After a moment, Sherlock spoke up quietly. "What if I do?"

John took a breath and counted to ten, carefully not looking at the detective. "Do what?"

"Give a damn."

That made the doctor turn. "Why the hell would you? It's not like you bothered to tell me you were alive, you know."

"Humor me, then." A hint of emotion ghosted across his face, quickly hidden as he steepled his hands under his chin. "It can be another experiment, if that makes you feel better."

Another breath, shakier this time. "It would've been fine eventually, I think, you being d- being gone. Tough, obviously- always is to get over someone close. But Harry would've been there, and Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft in his own insufferable ways. But people-"

His voice caught. "People need friends to help them get through this, Sherlock, friends- not people who call them idiots or delusional or blind or, or thick-headed. That's not- it doesn't work like that." He kept his eyes toward the window

Sherlock stiffened, any pretense of relaxation gone. "Why on earth would you, of all people, be given labels like those? Ridiculous, utterly preposterous-"

"Because I bloody well believed in you, didn't I? You couldn't honestly expect me to listen to that waffle about you being a fraud."

"Which is precisely why I had to die, don't you see? Don't you understand?" Sherlock sprang up from the couch in agitation, pacing across the floor.

"No, I don't understand! For once, would you please just explain what you're on about?" John finally looked at him, exasperated.

"Moriarty!" He flung his arms up impatiently. "He was clever, too clever, because he found the one thing that could snag me in that blasted web of his and keep me there, the one thing that could make me do whatever he wanted, even die.

"You told me something once- 'friends protect people,' do you remember? I had to do this because I count you as my friend and because you- despite everything- counted me as yours, and you needed protection that only my death could provide- Moriarty killed himself to be sure of it. Now do you see?"

John stared at him for a moment. "So.. you're saying Moriarty set up to kill me unless you killed yourself?"

"You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, a bullet for each unless the snipers saw me die."

"You did all of this, just to keep us safe." Definitely not how he'd thought the conversation would go. He resumed the pacing his friend had stopped, trying to wrap his brain around the concept. "I- alright, then. Okay."

Sherlock nodded, letting out a breath, but didn't relax. "John- would you do something for me?"

The doctor halted at the uncharacteristic hesitation. "Do what, exactly?"

"Forgive me?"

Funny, really, how things like that got to him sometimes. John held tight to the back of a nearby chair. "I- yeah. Of course."

He could see the tension drain out of the detective, as if the world were being rolled from Atlas' shoulder. "Thank you."

It finally hit him that he wasn't the only one with a year's worth of weight- Sherlock had been living the same thing, the same colorless nightmare day after day. The soldier stepped forward, closed the gap and wrapped his arms tightly around him before either of them realized what he was doing. And Sherlock, the man who had never willingly shown affection in his life, hugged him back.

"You never did tell me what you named your cat."

John cussed into Sherlock's shoulder, causing the taller man to raise an amused eyebrow. "Sorry, didn't quite catch that.."

"Shirley. And not a word or I will punch you again, I swear." A muffled laugh was his only reply.

John couldn't shake the feeling that some things would never be the same; it was like every bit of color that had once seeped into his nightmares was flooding back to where it belonged, leaving everything it touched sharper and brighter than it had ever been before.


End file.
